


Golden Girl

by laratoncita



Series: To Live & Die in LA [9]
Category: On My Block (TV)
Genre: F/M, Gen, Growing Up, Healthy Coping Mechanisms, Male-Female Friendship, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2021-01-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,667
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23126107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laratoncita/pseuds/laratoncita
Summary: “You don’t get turned down often, do you?”“This is the first time in a solid year,” he says.Oscar meets Neni at a block party.
Relationships: Oscar "Spooky" Diaz & Original Female Character(s), Oscar "Spooky" Diaz/Original Female Character(s)
Series: To Live & Die in LA [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1449880
Comments: 8
Kudos: 90





	1. La Difícil

**Author's Note:**

> hey.... im here 2 fix things.... picking n choosing what from s3 i like, but most importantly! we're gonna pretend that last cesar scene didn’t happen, actually, and also any references to cuchillos are my version, not the show’s lmfao
> 
> title from song of the same name by frank ocean!

Oscar meets Neni at a block party.

It’s the end of summer, and shit’s still cooling down from the bullshit that July had brought them. He goes to say hi to Mario and she’s standing next to him, chatting with his girl, highlights in her hair like the kind that were in style around the time Oscar got locked up.

“What’s good, homie?” he says in greeting, bumping fists with Mario, and both girls look up. “Ain’t seen you in a minute.”

“Spooky!” Mario’s tan from whatever he must have been. He looks a lot less stressed out than he did, that one time they ran into each other at the corner store, alleged baby mama at home and a sick kid brother, too. “Wassup? Just got back from the Bay, had an internship that kept me up there for the summer.”

“That’s tight, g,” he says, and nods at the girls, isn’t exactly subtle when he checks out the one he doesn’t know. She raises an eyebrow at him and he grins, makes sure it’s wide enough for his dimple to show. He’s been told it’s charming. “How you been, Angelica?”

“I’m good,” she says, and tilts her head towards the last of the four of them, says, “This is my cousin, Elena.”

“Es un placer,” Oscar says, reaching out to shake her hand, is maybe a little surprised by her grip.

“Likewise,” she says, her eyebrow still quirked up the slightest bit. Her eyes are dark, nose the slightest bit upturned. Pretty, he’d say.

“You just move out here?”

“Yeah,” she says, eyes darting to Angelica before she answers, “was living up in Oakland.”

“You grow up out there?” Oscar’s known a few folks from the Bay. Not too many, but enough. His cellmate, even. He still sends letters.

Next to them, Angelica and Mario are talking about something; Oscar’s not too interested. Elena—skin sun-kissed, pursed mouth, expression like she knows what Oscar’s after and hasn’t decided what she thinks of it—seems a better option for conversation.

Oscar’s kind of obvious, anyway, standing close to her, not in her face but enough that she has to shift a little to look up at him. She’s in a pink tank-top and athletic shorts, white Reeboks that look well-taken care of despite the creasing. She says, her eyes carefully looking him over, “Nah, my folks are in La Misión.”

“That’s dope,” he says, thinking of the stories he’s heard, “you head out to the lowrider shows at all?”

“A few times,” she says, Oscar watching her watch the block, her eyebrows expressive as her eyes sweep over the crowd and bounce back to him. “My mom’s folks are real into it, but my tíos think it’s a boys club, so.”

“You don’t?”

“I appreciate a nice car,” she says, shrugging. She crosses her arms, looks at her nails—filed sharp, color of overripe guayaba. “Not a huge fan of tryna go where I’m not wanted, though.” She flashes him a smile. Oscar could be into it.

He says, moving so that he’s standing next to her, close enough that they could brush each other’s shoulders without really trying, “My Loretta, she’s a sixty-four Impala. Cherry red.”

She says, humming, “Nice name for her.”

“I like ‘em classy,” he says, feels only a little chagrined when she rolls her eyes at his once-over.

“I’m in athletic gear, homie,” she says. “Nice try.”

“You look good,” he offers, and it makes her exhale hard, like she’s trying not to laugh.

“I fucking hope so,” she says, tossing her hair over one shoulder, “paid full price for it, didn’t even try stealing it from a department store.”

“You got money like that, huh?”

“I was working decent hours,” she drawls, and then asks, like she doesn’t want to touch the subject of work, “your name really Spooky, or is that just an inside joke?”

“They call me Spooky out here,” he says, “but you can call me Oscar, chula.”

“Right,” she says, and from her tone he can tell she thinks he’s full of shit. “Who’s _they_ , huh?”

“The streets,” he says, because it’s true. Doesn’t matter that he’s trying to get out, now. He’ll manage it soon, he knows—just a few loose ends left, new folks making moves. He thinks he’ll be out of Freeridge by December at the latest, and then he and Cesar can finally try to be a normal family. Freedom’s so close he can taste it.

He didn’t think he’d make it this far. Half the kids he started gangbanging with are in jail; the other half mostly dead. The only one who’s been around as long is Sad Eyes. He hasn’t heard from Adrian since shit went down with Cuchillos, even if he’s pretty sure he knows where he’d find him. He owes his tía a visit, anyway, but he’ll save that for later, when he and Cesar are finally out of here.

In the meantime, though, he’s still Spooky. The streets have been changing for far longer than Spooky’s belonged to them, though, and he knows it’s time to move on. None of that is relevant, though, not right now. Elena’s got great legs and seems to have a real personality, which is more than he can say of half the girls he’s been with since he and—

He clears his throat, tries not to think of what happened a year ago, Claudia in the passenger seat of his car giving him one last searing kiss. Not thinking of her comes easier, these days, but sometimes he’ll catch a whiff of someone’s perfume and it’s like he’s got her in his arms again for a split second before the memory fades.

Elena’s giving him a confused look, though, so he tries to play it off, tries to keep his memories from lingering in the present. He said he was going to try and put everything past him. He meant it.

“You want a drink or anything?” he asks her, and she shrugs.

“I’m alright,” she says, only to turn her head as someone walks by with a plate piled high with carnitas. Her eyes are a little too focused.

“Hungry?”

“I could eat,” she says, and then looks at him again, eyebrows set in a challenge. “You wanna fix me a plate, homie?”

“Shit,” he says, a little off-guard but willing to play along, “I guess. Whatchu want?”

“Some carnitas,” she says, gaze pulled into the crowd for whatever stranger triggered the craving in the first place, “don’t be stingy with the salsa.”

She tilts her head and grins, a little bit. Friendly but with a bite underneath it. Oscar’s not sure how he feels.

“You want ceviche?” Oscar asks; he might have brought some over. Figured it would be a nice gesture, and Marisol Martinez seemed happy to see him when he dropped it off at the food table, told him he was healing up nice enough thanks to her stitches.

“There’s ceviche?” Elena asks, looking surprised, “Yeah, that too.”

“Anything else?” He’s almost amused.

“Eres mesero o qué?” she says, and her smile’s a little more genuine this time, “I can just come with.”

“I gotchu,” he says. It’s not like it’s a hassle, not really. Grabs her a water while he’s at it, Modelo for him. When he gets back she’s saying something to Mario, nodding along to whatever he answers, and looks a little surprised to find he’s returned. Maybe even impressed, which could work out in his favor, he figures.

“Thanks,” she says when he hands her the plate, and he shrugs, looks out over the crowd. He dragged Cesar over with him, but he slipped away to the crowd claiming he’d find his friends. Oscar’s not entirely sure what’s going on with that—the kid seems quieter, lately, doesn’t matter what Oscar does to try and get him talking. The sooner they’re out of Freeridge the better.

When he turns back he has to blink at the way Elena’s scarfing her food down. He looks to Mario and finds the same expression that must be on his face, Angelica looking a little concerned. Oscar clears his throat, and then takes a sip of his beer.

“This shrimp’s really good,” Elena says when she finally pauses in her enjoyment of both carnitas and ceviche, a tortilla chip in her free hand. “What joint’s this from? Might have to seduce the cook.”

Mario coughs. Oscar says, slow grin spreading across his face, “I brought the ceviche.”

“Disculpe?” she says. “You made it?”

“Glad you like it,” he says, trying not to react to the incredulous look on her face, “I got extra at home, if you want.”

Angelica clears her throat. Says, “I’m gonna get a beer. Mario?”

“They got Victorias?” he asks, and then, when Angelica gives him a dirty look, “I mean, yeah! I’ll come with,” the two of them melting into the crowd within a blink.

Elena says, wry, “I feel like you saying you got shrimp at home is not really. Subtle. Or sexy, really.”

Oscar leans in a little, says, “What’s sexy, then?”

“If I was still a dumbass nineteen year old, my man,” she says, taking another bite of carnitas, “I would be down, not gonna lie. But I’m not nineteen anymore, and fucking cholos is not really my MO these days.”

Her expression is calm, friendly, even. Oscar’s…not sure what to say to that.

He might be silent for a little bit too long, because soon enough she shakes her hair out again, says, “You don’t get turned down often, do you?”

“This is the first time in a solid year,” he says, thinking of the shape of Claudia’s mouth, and Elena nods, expression considering.

“That’s rough,” she says, “but hey, rejection’s good for everyone.”

“You think I need to learn something, nena?”

She wrinkles her nose. “Ew, don’t call me that. I go by Neni.”

“Neni, huh? Not Nenita?”

“That’s corny,” she says, looking him over head to toe, “you sure no one’s turned you down lately?”

“I run these streets,” he says, “that ain’t really how it goes around here.”

“If you say so,” she says, clearly not believing him. “You’re a good cook, though. Decent waiter, too.”

He laughs a little, shaking his head. “Seem like you liked the food.”

“I’m starving,” she says, and sops up the last of her ceviche with the sliver of tortilla she’s got left. “C’mon, show me where the food’s at. I won’t even make you make my plate for me,” and Oscar, despite the bruised ego, figures he might as well.


	2. Una Vez

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also forgot to mention i am ignoring ray diaz im sorry im not retconning all this work lmfao
> 
> let's see how many songs off yhlqmdlg i can use as chapter titles!! :)

The next time he sees her she nearly runs him over with a grocery cart. She looks at least a little embarrassed about it.

“Sup,” he says, and she quirks a grin.

“Hi Oscar,” she says. She’s in athletic gear again, biker shorts on this time. Her hair’s in a messy bun, eyes looking tired. “How you been?”

“Good,” he says, raising an eyebrow at her, “you gonna lie and say you been the same?”

Neni laughs, says, “Here I thought you were gonna tell me I look good anyway. How tired do I look?”

“Like you ain’t slept since I last seen you,” he says, “thinking of me?”

She snorts this time, and he can’t help but grin back at her. He might not be getting lucky with her anytime soon but she’s entertaining, at least. “Not exactly,” she says.

He glances down at her cart, only a basket in his grip, just stocking up on things he’s a little low on. She’s got half the store, from the looks of it: fresh produce, rice, beans, tortillas. He raises both eyebrows when he sees the array of multivitamins she’s got among it, though, several different brands, the cart alive with color. “Health kick?”

She blinks at him, real slow, like she’s not sure what to say to him. Finally, she says, smile tucked in the corner of her mouth, “Grab one of them.”

“What?”

She pushes her chin at the cart, repeats herself. “Go ‘head.”

He decides to humor her—feels his expression blanche when he catches the _Prenatal_ in all caps, white text against a blindingly bright pink. He blinks at it, and then at Neni, and then at the bottle again. He says, “We. Definitely didn’t sleep together, right?” and it makes her laugh loud enough that heads turn.

“Wow,” she says, tongue against her lower lip, “I’m. I don’t even know what to say.”

“I’ve got one chiquillo at home already,” he says, shaking the bottle at her. She reaches out, takes it back from him with a roll of her eyes, “I ain’t the type to cut and run, but one’s enough for me.”

“You got a kid?” she says, tilting her head at him, “That didn’t come up last we talked.”

“My brother,” he says, feeling a flash of—pride, maybe, or paternal instinct, or just straight-up affection. “Sophomore this year.”

“That’s tight,” she says, tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, “guess bringing that up wasn’t a good way of getting what _you_ were after, anyway.”

“Was I after something?”

“So that’s why you say you don’t strike out,” she says, smirking a little, “you be forgetting, huh?”

“I dunno what you’re talking about,” he says, and then, looking at all of the things in her cart, remembering his mother, wobbly, trying to fit everything in her arms shortly before Cesar was born and she and Oscar were still bussing everywhere, “you need help bagging your stuff?”

She blinks at him. Says, tone a little dry, “It’s not your kid, Oscar.”

“Yeah,” he says, “but that don’t mean I can’t help you out, a little.”

She hums a little. Curls her fingers over the cart’s handle, nails no longer painted but filed into an oval shape, her expression still tired and now a little unsure. “You’re just tryna help?”

“You got food for a fucking house and not just you, parece, and they got like, three baggers here.” He raises his eyebrow at her. The expression usually works, but she just considers him with a tilt of her head.

“You come here often?”

“You hitting on me now?”

“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. She’s smiling a little, reminds Oscar of how Araceli Herrera—Mata, now, actually, since she married Chilango—used to laugh at him when he’d crash whatever girls’ night she was orchestrating with—with Claudia. They don’t look nothing alike, Araceli light-skinned like Güerita and with the bleached blonde hair to match, but the expression is familiar all the same. Araceli never took him seriously, or at least she never used to.

He ran into her, once, in the winter, around the time that shit with Cuchillos started getting bad, not that he was willing to admit it at the time. Shit, she’d been pregnant too; showing, though, second-trimester big, her firstborn holding onto her while she jerked to a stop at the sight of Oscar. He looks a little different, now, it’s true. Keeps his hair at a shorter buzz, bigger across the shoulders than before he got locked up. No doubt she had heard, too, about a girl dying at her quince because of Santos-Prophet bullshit.

She hadn’t seemed eager to run into him. Oscar, despite the months that had passed since he spoke to Claudia, remembered what she said about the two of. That the time and distance were too much. He wonders if that should’ve been his first warning.

Doesn’t matter that it’s been a year. He still misses her like he would a limb, he thinks. Doesn’t know how he’s supposed to get over it.

He says, the two of them moving towards the cashiers, “Why you got so much shit, anyway?”

“Pregnant women need vitamins,” she drawls, and then laughs at whatever expression Oscar makes, “no te dije? I’m staying at my tía’s place. It’s for all of us.”

“So you’re staying with Angelica, then?”

“Yeah,” she says, and narrows her eyes at him a little bit, the line ahead of them thankfully short. “You kick it with her?”

“I know her boyfriend,” he says, “but she be at parties my boys throw, sabes.”

“Lemme guess. You the life of the party.”

“Yup,” he says as they start to ring him up, “you should stop by.”

She says, hip cocked, oversized Nike’s runner shoes that Oscar was peeping earlier, “Do you know what prenatal means?”

“Pre,” he says, squaring his shoulders a little, grinning, “a prefix meaning _before_. Natal, of or relating to birth. You want me to spell it?”

“I’m glad you don’t only speak Caló,” she says, but he can tell she’s fighting off a smile, and he pays for his stuff before stepping further down to bag it while the cashier starts on Neni’s things. “So you know I’m not about to be kicking it at some party when I have to be sober for the next however many months.”

“You don’t know how long? Pretty sure they put it on the packaging, nena.”

“That’s one,” she says, giving him an unimpressed look, even as he starts bagging her groceries for her, “and while I like hanging out with Angelica, that don’t mean I’m tryna catch her doing dumb shit with cholos at a house party.”

“Mario’s cool,” Oscar says.

“Yeah,” Neni says, “he’s at my alma mater, I fucking hope so,” and he laughs.

He says, the two of them walking out of the shop together, most of her stuff on one of his arms despite her complaints, “You working right now?”

She looks surprised. “Yeah,” she says, slowly, “I mean. Mostly freelance shit, honestly. I got a part-time at the library, too.”

“You go to school for that?”

“Nope,” she says, and when she grins it’s a little self-conscious. “I was on scholarship, so I thought I could do whatever the fuck I wanted and be alright.” Her smile turns a little more bitter: “Who wants a dance major? I’m lucky I did English too, and even _that’s_ a stretch.”

“Mamita,” he says, and she starts to complain, not that he listens, “I’ve got a tear on my face.”

“Do shorties be licking it?” she asks, raising an eyebrow. Oscar blinks. “I had a boyfriend with—well, he had a face tat, alright, and I mighta been into it.”

Oscar says, “You telling me this the second time we met is making me wonder what’s gonna happen next time I see you.”

“Listen,” she says, and lifts her hands, palms up, making her eyes wide like she’s receiving crazy news and not, apparently, sharing some fun facts about her taste in dudes, “As someone with a college degree, I cannot be letting hood dudes in my pants anymore—keyword there. I just wish the degree was doing more for me, is all.”

She pops the trunk after her little spiel, a baseball bat and softball mitt the only thing taking up any real space. She didn’t park all that far from him, at least.

She continues, clearly expecting him to clown her, “Please don’t ask me about sports, I just carry that shit in case I get into a fight.”

“Oh, so you _fight_ now?”

“Yup,” she says, taking the various bags he hands her—she’s mostly got canvass ones, but she bought a lot of things, a few plastic ones stretched to their limit amongst the rest of the things she haphazardly organizes as he watches. “And first dude on my shit-list is my baby daddy, ha.”

When she straightens up she’s scowling. Looks like she didn’t mean to say that, or at the very least not to Oscar.

He asks, “You meet him down here?” and she sighs.

“No,” she says, shutting the trunk, “up in the Bay.”

“You still seeing him?”

She hesitates. Says, “You really not tryna get in my pants? I’mma be real with you, homie, I’m having a shit time right now, and I don’t have time to be dealing with some dude who won’t take no for an answer.”

“You’re not the only hyna in Freeridge,” Oscar says, automatically, and then screws his eyebrows up a little bit, “someone bothering you?”

Her expression twists up a little, like she doesn’t know what to say. Finally, she settles on, “Wow, you _are_ a dad.”

He’s pretty sure she doesn’t mean it as an insult. “Yeah.”

She laughs a little. Bites the inside of her cheek before telling him, her voice careful like if she doesn’t control herself she’ll lose it, “He says it’s not his. Told me to hit him up when it’s time for a DNA test.” Oscar stares long enough that she fidgets, uncomfortable. “I know.”

“Where the fuck’d you find this dude?”

“Old roommates,” she says, and rolls her eyes, like she can’t believe herself, “introduced me at the beginning of the summer for some reason, like they didn’t know I was gonna be gone by August. He was cool, but.” She shrugs, jaw tight. “Anyway. I took the test the day after that block party and here I am. Not two weeks later and apparently doing this shit on my own.”

Whatever look is on his face must amuse her. He wonders if that’s going to become a habit.

“Sheesh, that’s fucking depressing to hear, huh,” she says, “here you were just tryna holler at me. Sorry, homes.”

Oscar says, slowly, like he’s trying to gain his footing, realizing that he saw the cashier ring up some tuna for her, “I thought you couldn’t eat seafood if you’re pregnant.”

Neni pauses, hand resting on the trunk. Says, eyes going wide, “What? Oh shit,” and that’s when Oscar decides that maybe he should just stick around, instead.


	3. Pero Ya No

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> gonna go ahead n just... imply stuff abt my version of cuchillos... 🥺🥺

“So like,” Neni says, hovering while Oscar cooks meat on the grill, blinking at him innocently when he takes a step back and nearly topples over her, “are you. Working right now, or what?”

It’s late August, a dry heat for once. Neni’s nursing a ginger ale, in a cropped top and high waisted shorts. When Oscar asked her what her tía said when she told her she was pregnant, her whole face puckered up. It’s past lunchtime, though, and Neni said she hadn’t had anything besides toast to eat—“This morning sickness shit is _wack_ , bro,”—and Oscar’s been wanting to grill for a minute. Inside, Cesar’s moping; Oscar’s pretty sure it’s because Monse’s left for school.

He says, a little dry, “I’ll give you one guess.”

“Retail sucks anyway,” she says, shrugging, “trust me, I was a cashier for a summer, I’ve never been homicidal like that before.” She puts her hand up, finger in his face before he can even open his mouth: “Don’t say it.”

“Get outta my face,” he says, but moves around her to grab his beer from the table where they’ve got all their stuff.

Neni puts one hand over her eyes, shielding them from the sun, and asks, “How long will it take for them to cook?”

“Like ten minutes.”

“It’s all gotta be well done, doesn't it,” she says, dropping into one of his chairs, sprawled like she owns the place. She’s pouting a little bit. It’s been a little over a week since he ran into her at the grocery store and then stood arguing with her over the Google search results of unsafe pregnancy foods. He knows better than to think everything on the internet is true; he just wasn’t interested in arguing over whether or not home-made hummus was allowed, and did he know how to make that, by the way?

He does. Today she’s content to snack on the roasted garlic hummus he whipped up for her five minutes beforehand, chip crumbs already all over her mustard-yellow shirt. He thinks this might be like having a sister, not that he’s thinking too hard about it.

She’s come by twice to drag him out to lunch, claiming the morning sickness is starting to kick in and the smell of coffee makes it worse. She didn’t appreciate his asking her if she was still _drinking_ it, but she also didn’t put up a fuss when he tried ordering their food for them both.

Old habits die hard—doesn’t see the point in any girl he’s out with having to talk to a waiter. He’s pretty sure that makes him a machista, not that he’ll stop. Maybe he thinks it’s a little romantic. That’s his business.

The second time, a few days ago, he asked her why she was coming around to see him. She hadn’t even let him pay for their first lunch, and maybe he was confused. She shrugged, across the table at them at Dwayne’s, Cesar making a face when he saw them walk in together during his shift. She went in on two sandwiches that day.

She shrugged, pausing in her chewing only to take a sip from her drink. He remembers the stare-off they had when she tried to order a Coke. She looked away from him for a split second, eyes sweeping over the restaurant like second nature, before looking at him again. Her voice didn’t quite waver, but he could tell she was putting on a front when she told him, “I don’t really know anyone ‘round here. Angelica’s working full-time and I’m not really interested in becoming her man’s new best friend.”

“Settling for mine then?” Oscar was pleased when it made her grin.

“Yeah, something like that,” she said, and then, “lunch is on you today, homie,” and that was that.

Oscar can’t remember the last time he was cool with someone who wasn’t affiliated. Mario, maybe, but even then that was a stretch. They know each other through their kid brothers, get along decently. Angelica he doesn’t know half as well; she has the slightest bit of a reputation when it came to Santos, not that it stopped her from getting to Mario, clearly.

Neni, hair dyed dark again like she was finally embarrassed by her shitty highlights, isn’t all that much like Angelica, really. Same jaw, same eyebrows, first cousins thanks to their mothers. Neni’s got bad jokes and a loud ass laugh, is only a little concerned to know that her cousin runs with Santos even when her boyfriend isn’t around.

She seems a little bit like she’s not sure where to go from here, though. Oscar can relate to that a little too well.

Today he asks her, “Why you asking? Library hiring?”

“Nah,” she says, crunching down on a particularly large chip, “got one of those resume workshops coming up, though. Wasn’t sure if that was uh. Relevant, or anything. Maybe for Cesar?”

“He’s still at Dwayne’s,” Oscar says. Resists the urge to check the burgers, feels itchy at the thought of job talk. He’s got the RollerWorld money stashed; it’s blood money, like all the cash that passes through his hands is, but this time it’s different. This time it’s enough to get out of Freeridge. He’s just got to plan it right—doesn’t matter that Cuchillos is out of the picture. He’s pretty sure the place will go up in flames if he’s not careful.

“Yeah,” Neni says, “I remember. They’re not hiring cooks right now or nothing?” Oscar must look at her too long, because she huffs a laugh. “I mean. You’re cool with the owner, aren’t you?”

“Sure,” Oscar says, because hired muscle isn’t quite what he’d consider being _friends_.

“That ceviche was good,” she says, “and you keep saying you’re a good cook. Might be a good idea.”

He tries not to stare. “You telling me to get out the business, nena?”

“That’s one,” she says. Does it every time he calls her anything other than _Neni_ , said she’d take _Elena_ over whatever shit was coming out of Oscar’s mouth. “Seems like you ain’t a big fan, is all.”

He goes to check on the burgers, flips them before answering. She’s got her chin against one fist, eyebrows raised. “What?”

“Am I wrong?” She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms afterwards. A little too smug for Oscar’s taste.

He says, trying to keep his voice as level as possible, “You think they want a dude with a tear tattoo in the kitchen?”

Neni purses her mouth. She takes a minute to respond, says, “What you wanna do, then?” and he fixes his gaze somewhere over her right shoulder.

“Gotta think in baby steps, mamita,” he says, and it’s a testament to the topic at hand that she doesn’t call him out. “Might wanna figure out how to hide my felonies, sabes?”

“Dudes are so fucking dumb,” she says, bored, “you ever heard of laser removal? Pretty sure I saw a Groupon thing for it the other day.”

“I,” Oscar says, and doesn’t have anything better to say. He knows what laser removal is. He hasn’t really thought about it, though. Or what it would mean to have the evidence of his life over the past ten years slowly erased. If it were a year ago it wouldn’t even matter; he owed too much to Cuchillos to ever consider leaving. But it’s not last summer anymore. He’s got the money for it, doesn’t care if people start to talk.

He and Cesar can leave whenever they want. Maybe it’s time he start preparing for that.

“I’m so smart,” Neni says when he stays quiet, and then, “are the burgers done though? I’m starving.”

“Hungry ass,” he says, automatically, and she swats at him, stands up when he goes to check on the food.

“I’m pregnant, bro, you can’t _say_ that—”

“I _can_ , and I did,” he says, but laughs anyway when she launches into a rant about her OB’s unfortunate list of food restrictions, her gestures huge and exaggerated. He watches in a little disgust while she adds nothing but a copious amount of both onion and mustard to her sandwich, biting into it like it’s the best thing she’s ever eaten.

She waves him off when she catches sight of his face, says, “Shut up,” like he’s said something. She’s ready to take her second bite when she pauses, says, “Does Cesar want anything?”

Oscar shrugs. “Told him we were grilling. If he doesn’t wanna come out, that’s on him.”

“Pues, dile,” she says, but goes back to eating without saying anything more. She takes a sip of ginger ale, Oscar digging into his own burger—cheese, lettuce, tomato and onion, condiments like usual. Nothing but the sounds of the neighborhood for several long moments, a comfortable silence between the two of them. Neni interrupts it soon enough, says, voice serious sounding, “You tryna leave this shit o qué?”

Oscar’s silent while he considers the question. He’s got a lot to lose if he admits it. But Neni’s new in town, doesn’t run with _malandros_ anymore, she says, doesn’t matter that she’s chilling in his backyard eating burgers with him today. She’s good people, he thinks. Stays clowning him, sure, but it’s nice to have normal friends. He thinks he’s allowed to say that.

He says, instead, “You ever date a d-boy?”

“Yeah,” she says, “once or twice. Shit got old.”

“Try living it,” he says, and can’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “Nearly cost me Cesar. I lost a lotta people anyway.” He thinks of the funerals, the homies in jail, the ones who are worse for wear. Chucho’s been dead months. Santi’s cut and run, but fuck him, Oscar thinks. He ever runs into him he’ll beat the shit out of the guy, but not for dipping. He saw Maritza Ocón after he got his hands on her.

Old habits die hard. Oscar remembers.

Neni looks real serious. “Yeah,” she says, for lack of anything better to say, probably. “Yeah, I get it. It’d be nice to get outta here, I think. Find a nice Chicana from the Eastside, I bet.”

He laughs a little, says, “That was more my cousin’s style.” Fucking Adrian. He knows exactly where he is, called his tía Alejandra and heard her stutter over who was home when he asked. Of course he ended up chasing after Vero; Oscar saw that coming years ago, when he was all of seventeen years old and mad about her taking shots with her friends at her own quince.

Neni perks up, says, “What kinda girls you like then, huh? If you say me I’ll kill you.”

“You ain’t that cute.”

“Lie again,” she says, reaching out for another chip with hummus. “Lemme guess. Boricuas, eh? You like the curly hair?”

“That feels a li’l racist, nena—yeah, okay, that’s two, fine.”

“It’s three. Don’t change the subject.” She smirks a little bit. Oscar’s _positive_ this is what having a sister is like. “I don’t believe you about not striking out for a year, but were you dating any of them girls at least?”

“No.” Didn’t see the point, really. None of them are what he really wants. The drive to Huntington Park would feel like a lifetime’s journey—and he isn’t looking to get his heart broken again, besides.

“Why not?” Neni looks curious, can of ginger ale in her loose grip. “Who you holding out for, homes?”

He flinches. Can’t help it, but it makes her face light up.

“Oh shit, you _are_ holding out for somebody. Who is it? Do I know her?”

“You don’t know nobody in Freeridge,” he reminds her, and she flops her free hand at him.

“I want the chisme.”

“There is none.”

“Oscar.”

“Elena.”

She pouts. He takes another bite of his burger.

She says, “I can give you girl advice,” and then, “Okay, fine, that’s probably useless considering the state of my life right now,” when he fixes her with an incredulous look. “Dime.”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re annoying?” he asks her, suddenly on the opposite side of the phrase, considering who used to tell him that.

She tosses her hair back, says, “No, now tell me,” and Oscar…well. Maybe it’d be nice to talk about it.

“Her name’s Claudia,” he says, and it stings. “We dated before I got locked up. For a little while after, too.”

“Like when you were first there? Or when you got out?”

“Both.”

Neni tilts her head. “Y’all break up?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, staring down at his plate. His jaw’s clenched, unthinkingly, and he tries to relax. “First time, ‘cause I didn’t want her wasting her time waiting for me to get out. She’s real smart. Moved down to San Diego for school.”

“Was there a second time?”

“Me dejó,” he says, twitches at the empathetic look on Neni’s face. “Don’t.”

“That’s,” she says, and stops. “That sucks, bro.”

He nods. Clears his throat a little. “It’s fine,” he says. “You done eating? I should tell Cesar there’s food.”

She opens her mouth like she wants to argue. Says, instead, voice purposefully light, “What I tell you? We shoulda told him ten minutes ago,” and then gets up to help him carry the rest inside.

It wasn’t nice to talk about it. Doesn’t mean Oscar doesn’t still miss just saying her name.


	4. Hablamos Mañana

He doesn’t go for a Groupon deal, but it’s not hard to find a place who gives ex-cons a discount. The dermatologist who sits him down is in her forties, it looks like, smile lines around her mouth and a few streaks of gray in her light brown hair. She’s friendly but serious, explains the mechanics behind it; it all reminds him of the handful of science classes he took in high school before dropping out.

The pain stings, but it’s not any worse than what Oscar’s already felt, tattoo-related or not. The doctor tells him what kind of aftercare he needs to do, doesn’t bat an eyelash when he asks if he can pay cash. She’s little, maybe Ruby Martinez’s height, but she reminds him of his tía Alejandra, just a little bit. He wonders what makes a person go into this kind of work, figures it must be a question that others have had about him, too. Maybe even this doctor will think it after he leaves her office; that won’t stop him from being back next month.

He's not sure he likes the surprise on Cesar’s face when he catches sight of laser removal’s aftereffects. Tells him it seemed like a good investment and all he gets in response is _Right_. He asks Neni what it means, the next time he sees her, leaning heavy against the desk she’s sitting at while she scans returned books for work. The library is quiet this time of day, not that Oscar’s been here recently. It’s been a few days since the treatment, and she grabs his chin when she first sees him, hums approvingly at the scabs.

Her hair is in a messy braid; he almost wants to offer to fix it for her, but he’s only ever braided one person’s hair, and try as he might the memory of it still stings. Neni would probably complain about it, anyway, stays telling him he does too much, _This is not your kid, homie_ , and as much as he enjoys bothering her, he’d rather get her opinion on whatever the hell is going on with Cesar, once she decides she’s done appraising his new look.

“Bro,” she says, paging through one of the books in front of her, “which one of us is raising your li’l mocoso, huh? Why you asking me?”

“I need a second opinion,” he says, and it makes her snort.

“I’ve hung out with him for all of five minutes,” she says, “how you expect me to know what’s going on in his head? You’re like. His parent.”

“Yeah,” he says, “but that shit’s, like, hard, you know?” He winces a little bit. Not quite sure him raising Cesar on-and-off since he was practically a kid, himself, really counts. Not when he’s got Neni in front of him, _Six weeks yesterday!_ , still not showing, barely four months a college graduate. Says, instead, “Maybe I need second opinion.”

“From someone who don’t even know your brother like that?” She’s raising her eyebrows. Moves onto the next book, pulls out a few raggedy looking post-it notes that must have been forgotten. “Do you not have other friends?”

He stares at her. She stares right back.

“Okay, that was mean,” she admits.

He sniffs, pretends that maybe he does have friends who aren’t just Santos. Sad Eyes, at least, is a real one, he thinks. “You treat _your_ friends like that?”

“Yup,” she says, and then rolls her eyes, smiling a little, “pues, not really. My brother for sure.”

“You have a brother?” They’ve been hanging out long enough that Oscar feels like he should know that already, even if it’s only been a few weeks in reality. Neni’s a real normal person though. He’s pretty sure this is how adult friendships are supposed to work.

“Yeah,” she says, “wait, have I not mentioned Kiki before?”

“No,” he says, “y’all don’t call him—”

“The spelling,” she says, “he doesn’t like the way it looks like with a Q. Goes by Kiki instead, or Enrique sometimes when he’s tryna impress some ugly chick from the valley.”

It makes Oscar laugh. “You got a problem with the girls he dates?”

“All’a them gabachas want a badass cholo to piss off their six-figure daddies,” she deadpans, “I’ve smacked a bitch for less, you kidding me?”

“You rowdy. How you gonna deal when your escuincle comes out kicking and screaming?”

“If I have to have beef with a six year old one day then so be it,” she says, grinning again, “me and my baby, we ‘bout to be ride-or-dies, alright? That’s like you and Cesar, right?”

Oscar carefully keeps his expression neutral. He wants to say that _is_ how it is, but really that’s how it should be. He’s been shit, lately, barely made up for some of it over the summer, between actually spending time with Cesar and finally getting out from under the now-dead Cuchillo’s thumb, once and for all. He says, “Pues,” instead of answering, and then, “How old’s your brother, huh?”

“He don’t sling, if that’s why you’re asking,” she says, eyebrow still quirked up. She’s almost done scanning the stack of books in front of her, and then Oscar will probably need to scram. He’s almost sad about it. She continues, “He just turned twenty-four. We’re not even two years apart.”

“When’s your birthday?” Again, it feels like something he should know by now.

“January,” she says, and strikes a pose. “I’m an Aquarius.”

“Scorpio,” he says, and her face lights up.

“Please tell me you like that horoscope shit.”

“What?”

“Oh my God,” she says, “so no? This is how I know you been single since you got out the joint, this is all girls talk about now.”

“I talk to—”

“No you don’t,” she says, and stacks all her freshly-scanned books into a neat pile again, starts fiddling with something on the screen of the outdated computer she’s working on, “you pick up cholas at parties, you don’t be _talking_ to them.”

“Me estás juzgando?” He puffs his chest out a little, reminds him of when he’d mess with Cesar when he was even littler, trying to trick him even when the chiquillo could tell he was full of it. He misses those days.

“You’re dumb,” she says, and rolls her eyes. “Anyway, I’m done for the day, lemme punch out and I can run your chart.”

“My what?”

“You’ll see,” she says, and soon enough they’re walking out of the library together, Neni harassing him about what time he was born while they head to his car. She’s big on bussing, she says, doesn’t want to spend gas money. Her car’s older, anyway, bought off her dad sometime during undergrad, she told him.

“You eat today?” he says, while she’s ranting about something in his fifth house or whatever the hell she’s on about.

“Toast,” she says, squinting at her screen. “God, of course your Venus is in—”

“Whatchu wanna eat?”

“I am not your baby mama,” she says, not for the first time, “you don’t gotta keep me fed.”

“I’m hungry,” he says, because he _could_ eat.

“Rib tips,” she says, finally, a prolonged moment of silence between them while she screenshotted something on her phone. “We’re discussing your chart over lunch.”

“Nena,” he says, grins when it makes her hiss, “I don’t know what the fuck that means.”

“Learning this will give you a new appreciation for women,” she says, and when he starts to complain cuts him off, “shut the fuck up, I’m right.”

“Your brother ever whoop your ass growing up?” he asks, “’Cause it feels like he should have.”

“If I was the one driving I’d crash on purpose,” she threatens, “you need all the help you can get when it comes to girls, ya tú sabes. _Not hookups_.”

“I’m not taking tips from someone whose baby daddy is white,” he says, and she reaches over to pinch him. “Mujer.”

“I told you that in confidence.”

“Who else is here but us?”

She scowls, starts taking her hair out of its braid. “Don’t clown me, fool.”

“A ver, _fool_ ,” he says, pulling up to Dwayne’s, which has rapidly become Neni’s favorite spot since moving into her aunt’s house, “just rib tips?”

“Yeah,” she says, “house sauce, but, a dónde vas, it’s my turn to pay—”

“Nah, I got it,” he says, even as she starts telling him off for always trying to buy her food.

Inside, Dwayne’s the one who rings him up, and Oscar watches the way his gaze settles over his still-healing eye and neck for a split second before taking his order.

“Good seeing you,” Dwayne says, and Oscar nods, shrugs a little.

“Things alright ‘round here?”

“Yeah,” he says, “back to normal, you know. How’s Cesar?”

“Good,” Oscar says. He’s is still here on weekends; used to be after school, but he mentioned something about asking for a shift switch. He thinks it a little odd, perhaps, considering how much time Jamal and Cesar used to spend running around just a few months ago.

Now, though, he starts to piece things together, Cesar either at home or at the library lately, whether it’s the one Neni works at or the school. He hasn’t seen him with his little friends in ages, can sometimes hear him on the phone with Monse—he stays having to pull him off it, actually, their conversations stretching hours even when it’s dinnertime.

“Good,” Dwayne echoes. He glances behind him before asking, like he’s clearly been wanting to, “New look, huh?”

“I know a girl,” he says, meaning the doctor, and Dwayne nods very seriously.

“Elena right? Nice girl,” he says, and Oscar blinks. He doesn’t get the chance to correct him, though, because Dwayne follows up with, “I hear you’re decent on a grill.”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, caught off-guard. “More’n decent.” It makes Dwayne laugh.

“I’ve been down a cook since the summer,” Dwayne says, “any chance you looking for a morning gig? Pay’s not bad. Work’s not too much worse.”

He blinks. “You serious?”

“Easier than putting out a flyer,” he says. “I know you’re good people, besides.”

Oscar feels very small, suddenly. Like he’s a kid all over again, someone saying they believe in him—words he hasn’t heard in ages. Only legit work experience he’s got is a summer at In ‘N’ Out, before he ever got any tats, and he quit that soon enough once he had reason to get them. He doesn’t even know what Dwayne means by decent pay, it’s been so long since he did anything but count the money made on Freeridge’s corners, but.

Maybe it’ll help him with the rest of it, he thinks. The getting out of Freeridge safely. The making something of himself and of Cesar, too.

Dwayne must see it one his face, because he tells him, “Sleep on it, Diaz. You know where to find me. You wanna start, show up an hour before opening.”

“You cool with family working here?”

“This is a family establishment,” Dwayne says, serious, and lucky for Oscar his order is ready before he has time to really unpack the statement.

When he walks outside, there’s a familiar Santo leaning sitting at the outdoor table Neni’s snagged for them. She’s grinning real coyly, expression unfamiliar to Oscar, and he walks up to them with something like amusement, Sad Eyes straightening up when he catches sight of him.

“Sup, compa,” Sad Eyes says, and they fist bump once he puts their food down, “ain’t seen you in a minute. Busy, huh?”

Neni rolls her eyes, says, “If you’re asking if I’m running ‘round with him, chulo, the answer’s no.”

“Oh yeah?” Sad Eyes says, leaning on one elbow again, and Oscar feels like he’s in high school all over again, watching his boys try to flirt with girls and fail miserably at it. Neni’s still smiling, though, so Oscar plays the third wheel as he sits across from them, biting into his sandwich while Neni tucks a strand of hair—wavy from her braid—behind her ear. He wants to fake-gag but the food’s good, so he won’t. “Where you been hiding this one, Spooky?”

“I have a real job,” she says, sweetly, and it makes Sad Eyes grin.

“Where at?”

“The library,” she drawls, “stop by and I’ll bet you’ll find Oscar there, too.”

“You been kicking it?” he asks, and Oscar shrugs, wipes at his mouth.

“Keeping her outta trouble, sabes,” he says, “she’s as bad as my brother.”

“Keep talking shit, see what happens,” she says, and Sad Eyes laughs.

They keep at it for a little while longer, until finally Sad Eyes stands up, Neni’s number freshly added to his phone, and Oscar says, “Ahí nos vemos, homie,” and he laughs.

“Yeah,” he says, and they fist bump again, “later, bro,” before shaking Neni’s hand, real gentlemanly-like. She bites her lip, clearly trying not to grin, as she watches him walk away. Oscar waits until he’s out of earshot to clown her.

“What happened to not fucking cholos no more?”

“Shut up,” she says, and digs into her rib tips. “Did I fuck him? I gave him my number.”

“Why you think—”

“I’m a classy lady,” she says, and before he can mock her says, “and I know his name’s not Sad Eyes, tell me what it really is, that sounds like some cholo payaso and I’m _not_ with it.”

“Uh,” Oscar says, blanking. It’s been a minute since he last used it, but he’s pretty sure he remembers. “Alejo. Alejandro.”

“Apellido?”

“You gonna do a background check?”

“Does Angelica count?” She’s got a smear of sauce over her chin, and he offers her a napkin. “C’mon.”

“Guzmán,” he says, “his ma lives real close by.”

“Ah, my new suegra,” she says, and cracks up at the look on his face. “He cool?”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, thinking of the events of the summer, Sad Eyes there for him and for Cesar when no one else was, “yeah, he’s good people,” and the confirmation makes her smile, too.


	5. Ni Bien Ni Mal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> continuing my efforts to exclusively use bad bunny songs as titles...
> 
> one day i'll write my rewriting of s2 oscar's motivations but today is not that day

Late September he shows up one day at Dwayne’s an hour early and finds himself with a job. His tattoos are fading fast, second appointment fresh under his belt, and he’s less out of sorts with having to interact with folks who don’t sling than he was expecting.

Unfortunately, Cesar seems more suspicious than anything. Oscar’s wondering what the hell the kid’s smoking to be acting like this.

“But why Dwayne’s?” Cesar says. He demands it, really. Oscar’s tempted to grab the matamoscas. “I work there.”

“You think I don’t know that?” he says. He’s packing his lunch for him, leftovers from their Sunday dinner, since he’ll need to leave early in the mornings from now on. It’s dark out already, and his shoulder’s sore—he thinks he pulled it working out in the back, all his shit finally moved off the lawn like he’s been meaning to do forever. He and Oso have been…discussing things. Santos things. Oso’s been wanting more responsibility; who’s Oscar to deny it after all this time?

He’s still trying to hunt Adrian down—not because he’s trying to beat his ass for dipping. Maybe for running off with Vero, despite all the shit that went down with Chucho (just the thought of him makes Oscar cross himself), but that’s not really why he’s trying to get ahold of him. He needs someone to bounce his ideas off, someone who won’t immediately take it for weakness. It’s not that he doesn’t trust Sad Eyes. It’s that Adrian’s blood _and_ covenant, and he left first.

Right now, though, Cesar’s still scowling at him, just a little. Homie’s dressed like he always is, like how Oscar used to dress him when he was still little—khakis with a black tee, even if he knows what that still means around these parts. Makes Oscar want to dig out the old baby pictures he’s got stored under his bed, the ones he had left with his tía Alejandra while he was locked up. Thick as thieves, the two of them. It’s been rocky ever since, though, and that’s Oscar’s own fault, even if things were starting to look up over the summer.

Maybe that’s why he’s feeling hurt about Cesar’s response. Says to him, trying to hide it, “What’s the problem, homes? You tryna hide some shit at work?”

“No.” Cesar’s still got that pouty look on his face. “It’s just weird. Us working together.”

It’s not a good enough excuse for Oscar. He raises an eyebrow, says, “What is it, then?”

Cesar says nothing for a long time. Oscar’s got his lunch in the refrigerator by the time he answers. “What’re you tryna do?”

“Whatchu mean?”

“The laser removal,” he says, “the. The having a real job. What’re you doing?”

Oscar looks at him, says, “Ain’t it obvious?” but Cesar stays quiet afterwards.

He doesn’t like it. Tries to pry and it makes the kid defensive, tries to let it go and finds no change. He’s been hitting up the library for books on this adolescence shit as often as he does for Neni, lately. Sees her regularly, at work and then kicking it afterwards, was forced to drive over to La Michoacana once because all of a sudden she decided she needed some Gansito-flavored ice cream.

Today he decides to hit her up after _his_ shift, a few weeks under his belt already. She lives not too far from the Martinez’s place, with her tía and tío and Angelica, of course. The former doesn’t like him at all.

“Buenas tardes,” he says, when Angelica’s mom opens the door and flinches upon finding him there. “Neni around?”

“She’s still in bed,” she says, not seeming very impressed to find him there.

He nods. It’s nearly two. “She eat yet? I brought her lunch.”

“No,” she says, and sighs. Steps aside so he can walk in. She reaches out for the doggy bag, and Oscar hands it over. “No quería comer. Last door on the right.”

He’s already walking towards it. Hears her sigh again, and then the sound of her footsteps heading towards the kitchen.

Neni’s room is pale yellow; makes Oscar think of Easter. She’s under the covers, her hair a mess around her head, and she quirks a tired grin at him when he pauses in the doorway.

“You really still in bed, huh,” he says, “lazy ass.”

“I feel like shit,” she says, and her voice cracks on the last word. She covers her face with her hands, takes a deep breath. Oscar…probably shouldn’t have opened with that. She pulls her hands away, says, “Fuck. How was work.”

“Decent,” he says, leans against the arch. She presses her palm against one eye. “You eat?”

“Pregnancy is _so hard_ ,” she says, voice wobbling. “Will you please come cuddle with me.”

“What,” he says, and she gives him puppy eyes like how Cesar used to, when he was practically still a baby and didn’t want to have to sleep in his room by himself. “I’m a felon.”

“Muthafucker, you bring me lunch every day,” she says, and sounds more like herself. “If you’re gonna be over here harassing me you might as well pretend to be nice.”

“Ain’t that what bringing you lunch is for?”

“If I smell anything food-related,” she warns, “I’m gonna puke.”

“I’m coming from work, nena,” he says, and she flips him off.

“Stop calling me that.” She’s scowling. Looks younger than twenty-two, tired. Like maybe she’s scared for once.

“No que te llamas Elena?”

“I’m gonna kill you,” she says, and Oscar takes pity on her. She looks exhausted, like she hasn’t gotten any sleep despite being in bed all day. He kicks his shoes off, stays over the covers—Angelica’s mom’s prone to screeching. Even if he likes Neni too much to ever get at her like he was trying to, the first time they met, he’d rather not have to deal with any angry Mexican moms.

She turns her head towards him a little, listless, and he frowns. Reaches out to tuck her hair behind her ear, remembers doing that for Claudia so suddenly it’s like a punch to the gut. He says, voice rough, “You really sick?”

“Everything hurts,” she says, “God, hasta mis tetas. I’m so nauseous just the thought of eating is. Ugh.”

“You eat breakfast at least?”

“Toast,” she says dully, “and some lemon water.”

“It’s almost two.”

“I’m hungry,” she says, “but. Ya te dije.”

He presses the back of his hand to her forehead. No fever. Just pregnancy shit, then. He doesn’t remember his mom being quite this sick, when she was pregnant with Cesar. Lucky for her. Neni frowns at him, doesn’t seem pleased by the faux-mothering.

“This shit is wack.”

“You the one who wants to be a mom,” he says, and she wrinkles her nose, opens her eyes again.

“Shut up,” she says, and heaves herself up to lean against the headboard next to him. “Wow, that hurt.”

“Gonna puke?”

“No,” she says, but closes her eyes like she’s got to concentrate to make sure that stays true. “Aren’t there drugs I can take.”

“I can get you some,” Oscar offers, and she laughs. He’ll admit to being glad that he’s at least able to cheer her up a little.

“You’re an idiot,” she says, but stays grinning, reaches for her phone—plugged in, charging—on the bedside table. He sees a familiar name but can’t say anything before they’re interrupted.

Both turn their heads when they hear someone knock on the door. It’s open, and Oscar’s not even under the covers, but Angelica’s mom doesn’t look too pleased to see them sitting together. She purses her lips. “Quieres tomar algo, Neni?”

Oscar wasn’t expecting her to offer _him_ anything, not even water. He smirks a little, just to see her flinch. Says, “Tienen manzanilla?”

Her mouth stays puckered. “Yes.”

He jerks his head towards Neni. “Que tiene náuseas.”

“Of course she does,” she says, and then to Neni, “si quieres?”

“Yes, please,” she says, “thank you, tía.”

“Ay, mija,” Angelica’s mom says, shaking her head a little bit. She looks less bothered by Oscar now, at least, and disappears from the doorway, presumably to get Neni her chamomile tea.

Oscar raises an eyebrow at her. “You know anything about this or are you just guessing?”

“About what?”

“Being pregnant.”

“Bro,” she says, amused, “are you trying to mansplain pregnancy to me?”

“Manzanilla helps with nausea,” he says, “don’t everybody know that?”

“I just drink whatever my mom brings me,” she says.

“Good for you,” he says, and she knocks her shoulder against his. Rests her head there again, afterwards.

“I’m so tired it hurts.”

“You gotta eat something,” he says. “Pretty sure it’s worse when you don’t eat nothing.”

“Tea first,” she says, “whatchu bring me, anyway?”

“Brisket,” he says, and her stomach rumbles.

“Okay,” she says, not looking a little bit embarrassed, “that sounds good. You make it?”

“One’a the homies,” he says—one of the other guys handed it to him as he walked out, said something about needing Oscar’s opinion on the new mop sauce Dwayne had him experimenting with. He figures he’ll steal a bite from Neni, see what they both think before offering his judgement.

Neni’s quiet for a moment. Says, careful, “I was on the phone with my folks, earlier.”

“Yeah?”

“My mom’s real excited.”

Oscar can’t imagine. Doesn’t think of his own much at all, these days. “That’s good, ain’t it?”

“Yeah,” she says. She’s leaning her head against him again. “Says she wants to be a grandma already. Homegirl’s not even fifty.”

“You call your moms homegirl?”

“Sometimes,” she says, laughs a little. “Pero my dad’s a li’l concerned. And my brother doesn’t care.”

“Huh.”

“That’s just Kiki,” she tells him. “Brothers, right? How’s Cesar, anyway?”

“Weird,” Oscar says. “Like. More than usual.”

“Pretty sure you’re just biased, fam.”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head a little. He looks around the room, the photos on the wall, the sliding doors of the closet half-open and all of Neni’s athleisure fits carefully hanging on mismatched hangers. “Worse, now. Things were getting better.”

Neni is carefully still next to him. She lifts her head, and he can feel her watching him while he scopes out the room like if he doesn’t something might catch him off-guard. It doesn’t look all that lived in—like Neni’s just visiting and not staying long-term. She said that she couldn’t afford to stay in San Francisco unless she could stay with her folks, but finding work that wasn’t retail wasn’t going well when she tried it.

She says, voice neutral, “You never told me what made it so bad,” and Oscar can’t help but laugh, a little ugly, a little cruel.

He says, voice bitter, “Me.”

She hums. Stretches her arms out in front of her, looks at her nails. “Interesting.”

Oscar rolls his eyes and they each give the other unimpressed looks. “You wouldn’t get it.”

“Try me.”

“You’ll wanna fight me,” he says instead, because as much as it seems like Cesar will never warm up to her—despite her bringing those disgusting Hostess cupcakes that he immediately inhaled last time she was over for dinner—she probably won’t like news of Cesar being on and off the streets for months because of Oscar’s inability to say no to Cuchillos. Doesn’t matter that he’s fixed it now. He did that.

She says, “That’s just ‘cause you’re always on some bullshit, c’mon,” and he laughs again. She looks young like this—bags under her eyes, hair a mess. Her mouth quirks up in half a smile. “What?”

He says, “You really wanna know?”

“Yeah.”

He takes a deep breath. Says, looking somewhere over her shoulder, “I killed the man who held a gun to my head and said he’d pull the trigger on me _and_ Cesar if I didn’t make it clear he wasn’t welcome with the Santos anymore,” the look on Neni’s face something like horror.


	6. Vete

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oscar’s taste in music does not reflect mine okay! i be rocking to paulina even if its true she cant sing!!

It happens after some apartment hunting.

“ _Paulina Rubio_ can’t sing the songs she be singing,” Oscar tells Neni on their way back to his place. She left her car out front after badgering him about coming with, since she was hoping to find her own place before the baby was born, and has subjected him to old Spanish hits the whole drive back, “how you gonna sing along? You can’t sing.”

“Shut the fuck up, yes I can,” she says, taking a break from trying to hit the high notes that Paulina Rubio isn’t quite able to in _Ni Una Sola Palabra_. “She was hot in this video.”

Oscar waits until they’re at a red light to stare at her. “No she wasn’t,” he says, vaguely remembering her outfit—gold lamé and a leotard. Homegirl can’t sing _or_ dance, not that he’s ever been into that Spanish pop shit.

“Do you not like blondes,” she says, pushing her sunglasses up over her forehead. She looks conniving. “You ain’t show me a picture of your girl yet, lemme see your phone.”

“I don’t have pictures of her,” he says, immediately, and then, as the light turns green, “and I don’t have a girl.”

“You know exactly who I’m talking about,” she says, and when all he does is grunt in response continues, “you tried hitting her up at all?”

“No,” he says, even if he’s thought about it. The way things ended— _I love you, but I’m leaving_ —still stings. And nothing’s really changed, it feels like. The things that have don’t feel enough. They’re just little things, shit he should have done years ago, before Claudia left and before he got locked up in the place. It’s been over a year since he last saw her. There’s no way she’s still hung up on him the way he is, her.

“Hm,” Neni says, and then cranks up the radio before singing along to some old Manu Chao hit that Oscar at least recognizes.

Cesar gets home a few minutes after they do, while they’re still on the front lawn, Neni and Oscar lingering near her car while they discuss housing options. Oscar hasn’t had to think about this in years, and while he’s half-surprised to realize Cesar wasn’t even home—as he had been when he left a few hours earlier—he’s definitely surprised by the driver of the similarly familiar car.

Just the sight makes his stomach lurch; Claudia, hair shorter than the last time he saw her, blinking in surprise when she sees him and Neni out front. There’s something like guilt in her expression when their eyes meet, but another indescribable emotion there too. Oscar won’t admit he’s got something like butterflies just at the sight of her.

He’s jerked out of a half-forming fantasy in his head when Neni calls out, “Hi Cesar!” and waves. She looks curious, her blouse half-tucked into a pair of black shorts, longer than the kind she usually wears when she’s bumming around with Oscar. It’s mid-October already, and the weather is slowly, slowly shifting towards something cooler than the summer heat—not that it means much in LA, of course.

Cesar flinches a little before offering his own greeting, and for a split-second he seems like he’s going to go straight into the house. He comes over to them first, though, half-patting his back pocket as he says, “Where were you guys?”

He looks a little suspicious. Oscar’s still watching Claudia, who’s no longer watching him and instead climbing out of her car. She’s in a nice-looking button-up and jeans. Oscar wishes he didn’t still want her so badly.

Neni’s just saying, “Looking at apartments, is all of La Avenida expensive like that or do you think the realtor thought I was on some gentrifying bullshit,” when Claudia steps up to them.

Her expression is undefinable. When she speaks, her tone is, too: “Cesar. Your phone.”

Oscar’s seen that look on Cesar’s face before. He knows, immediately, that the mocoso left his _brand new_ phone in her car on purpose.

“Oh,” Cesar says, obvious as all hell, “my bad.”

Oscar says, “I just bought you that,” like he’s not expecting Cesar to just give him the stink-eye. Instead what he gets is that puppy dog look that he thought the chiquillo outgrew years ago.

“Sorry,” he says, and Oscar _knows_ he’s laying it on thick for some reason, though he doubts he’d admit it if called out on it. “We were just grabbing lunch. Not pupusas though. Remember going last summer?”

Oscar flinches at the same time Claudia does. He remembers perfectly well what happened that day—the tension over lunch, Claudia clearly trying to make it go away, kissing her when he dropped her off at home…He doesn’t need the reminder.

Claudia says, “Yeah,” and glances at him for a split second, gaze skittering towards Cesar when Oscar catches her looking. Makes him feel something like hope, maybe.

“Oh, we should have grabbed some,” Neni says, and when Claudia looks at her, her expression is more severe, not that friendly and open one that Oscar was so used to seeing. It reminds him, oddly enough, of the handful of times they’d run into Cuchillos’ oldest daughter, before he got arrested the second time. Neni, though, is still smiling, real friendly, and offers her hand: “I’m Neni!”

Claudia stares at her for a split-second too long, then takes her hand like she’ll catch something if she grips too hard, “Claudia.”

Recognition flashes across Neni’s face fast enough that Oscar almost misses it. She says, voice betraying no surprise, “Nice to meet you! Oscar’s mentioned you a few times.”

That catches her off guard. She looks at him directly, this time, even if her eyes can’t seem to settle easily on his face, jumping from his eyes to the still fading tattoos to his mouth and back up again. He swallows.

Claudia says, “Good things?”

“Always,” Oscar says, openly staring at her, and then, “how you been?”

From the corner of his eye he sees Cesar and Neni take a few steps back, the latter soon leaning over and saying something. Cesar looks weirded out but acquiesces, the two of them hunching over his phone to look at something.

“Good,” Claudia says slowly, half-glancing at their slowly-escaping company before looking at him again. “You?”

“Decent,” he says, honest. Can’t keep his eyes off her, drinks in the sight like it’s the last chance he’ll get. She can tell as much, it’s obvious, but her gaze keeps jumping between him and Cesar and Neni even as she bites her lip.

“Looking at apartments, huh?” Her voice goes funny. She rubs one hand over her elbow, looks away from him. He wants to reach out and tuck her hair behind her ear. It aches to know he’s not allowed to do that anymore. “I liked La Avenida.”

“Yeah,” he says. He hadn’t liked living apart from her. It’s hard to believe he’s spent so long doing it, though. “Figured it might be time to get outta here, finally. Been tryna save up.”

“Oh yeah?” She doesn’t look like she quite believes it. It stings.

“I’m working at Dwayne’s, now,” he says, omitting the planning he’s been doing with Oso practically day in and day out. He’s not trying to step on any toes. He’s also not trying to end up someone’s bitch. He’s tired of trying to survive this life—if he’s going to get out of it, it’s going to be _alive_. “Nice gig.”

Claudia looks…surprised. Pleased maybe. “That’s really good. You like it?”

He feels surprisingly honest when he answers, says, “’S not exactly the kinda cooking I wanna do, but. Yeah. The Turners are good people.”

“I know,” she says, and when she looks at Cesar her expression is fond, like it always has been, “Cesar’s always liked them.”

Oscar swallows. Thinks of how they had to take him in because he was too much of a coward, all those months ago. Nearly a year ago, soon, Cesar ended up on the streets because Oscar wasn’t brave enough to just snatch him up and go. He wants to wonder how different their lives would be if he had been, but he’s long learned there’s no point in getting hung up on the what-ifs. He has to focus on the now.

Even if that means he’s got Claudia in front of him and no idea how to keep her there.

She clears her throat, says, “Well. I’m gonna get going.”

“You sure?” he says, tries to remember how clean the house is. He definitely scrubbed it all down the day before, not that it means much with a teenager in the house.

Claudia shrugs, glances towards the house again, and says, “Yeah.” She calls out to Cesar, says, “Ahí me voy, Cesar,” and he looks up from his phone, leaves it in Neni’s grip while he comes close to say goodbye.

“Are you sure?” he asks, just like Oscar did, and it stings, a little bit. She was never Oscar’s live-in, even when they were actually living together. She always had her own dreams and a variety of things going on—school, work, her own social life away from Oscar. It was nice to know she was always coming back to him. That she chose him over and over, because she wanted to. But that doesn’t mean she didn’t love Cesar just as fiercely as Oscar does. He’s sure Cesar remembers that. He’s sure he misses it, too.

She must, too, from her expression, the way she reaches out and squeezes Cesar’s elbow. “Yeah, querido,” she says, voice sweet like he’s still little, eight years again when they were all a family, “but we can do this again soon, I promise.”

“Okay,” Cesar says, sounding sad, but he steps close to hug her anyway.

“Be good,” she tells him, and looks at Oscar again before shaking her head, like she’s banishing a thought. She raises a hand towards Neni, says, voice flatter than it was a split-second ago, “Nice to meet you.”

Neni’s much more enthusiastic when she waves, “Have a good one!”

Just like that, Claudia’s gone. They watch her drive away, and when she’s out of sight Oscar turns to Cesar. Rather than try and process the emotions that have just hit him like a two-by-four, he says, “What the hell was that?”

“We grabbed lunch,” Cesar says, shrugs. The little act he had on—the _forgetting_ his phone thing—is gone. He’s watching Oscar a little too closely for comfort. “Se ve bien, no?”

“Don’t be disrespectful,” Oscar says automatically, and Neni finally comes close to them again, her eyes wide and amused.

“So that’s Claudia,” she says, impressed. “Bro, she’s hot.”

“Neni,” Oscar says, giving her a look. Cesar’s looking at her oddly too.

“She _is_ ,” she says, “how the hell’d you land her, huh?”

“We were sixteen.”

“That’ll do it,” Neni says, and Cesar clears his throat.

“Okay,” he says, “I’m gonna. Go do homework now, I guess.”

“It’s Saturday,” Neni says, but he waves them both off, says, “I know,” before ducking into the crib. She turns to Oscar next, says, “He’s a little weird.”

“Hey,” Oscar says, like he hasn’t said the same to her. He sighs, after, tries to let the tension bleed away while he does. “Jesus.”

“That was a lot, huh,” she says, almost soothing, but not quite. “You can be honest.”

“Why the fuck do I still want her so bad,” he says, and his voice cracks a little. Neni puts her hand over his shoulder, squeezes. “It’s been over a year.”

“It’s okay,” she says, and he shakes her off.

“It’s not,” he says, flat. “She left me. What the fuck am I waiting for.”

“I mean,” she hedges, “I don’t think you’re really. Waiting for anything, homie. I think you’re living your life. It’s okay to not be over her.”

He fixes her with an incredulous look. “What part of ‘it’s been a year’ did you miss?”

“Feelings aren’t logical, dude,” she says. “You dated her, what, three years? You was locked up for a long time after, too, like. There wasn’t really time for closure.”

“I just said—”

“It’s one thing to try to move on,” she cuts him off, “and another thing to like. See her with your kid when you least expect it. It’s okay to be upset. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

He swallows. Says, “I still want her.”

“Well yeah, she’s hot,” she says, and then laughs at whatever face he makes. “Oscar, seriously. It’s okay. Let’s get you some fruit.”

“You’re so annoying,” he says, but he’s smiling, just a little bit, as she leads him inside. He can keep pretending, he thinks, to be okay. Eventually he’ll start believing it. He just hopes it comes soon.


	7. En Casita

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stream las que no iban a salir!!!! :)

On his birthday Neni asks him if she’s showing, and he’s not sure what a good answer really is.

“Maybe?”

She’s blinking at her reflection, hips twisting while she looks back and forth between herself and whatever she sees. She says, “I can’t tell either. I feel like I am? But like. It’s not that noticeable.”

They’re going to grill later tonight, an early dinner. It’s barely two now, which means Neni showed up with milkshakes for the three of them, made Oscar tell her exactly what flavor Cesar liked out of fear he’d just toss the drink out. Oscar insisted he’s been raising Cesar better than that, and he could practically hear the eyeroll Neni was giving him when he called to let her know.

She was clowning him about his texting habits—no, he doesn’t use emojis, why does she care—when they walked outside and she caught sight of herself in the screen door’s reflection. She’s in a shift dress, her hair and makeup done despite saying she had the day off. Oscar’s a little suspicious.

Cesar walks out, chocolate milkshake with peanut butter sauce in hand, and Neni asks him the same.

“Cesar,” she says, “do you think I’m showing?”

He blinks at her. “What?”

“Do you think I’m showing,” she says again. Points to her belly. “I think I’m supposed to, soon.”

Cesar’s head swivels from her to Oscar. He can’t really blush, but his eyebrows scrunch up, mouth opening and closing a few times before he says, voice very high, “I don’t. Know?” before he turns and rushes into the house again.

Neni blinks at Oscar, who feels equally dumbfounded. She says, slowly, “Oscar, did your brother not know I’m having a baby.”

“I,” Oscar says, and pauses. “Maybe?”

She looks like she’s realizing several things at once. “Hm. Some things are starting to make sense.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I don’t think Cesar likes me all that much,” she says, tone conversational. She has one hand cupping her belly. Oscar _really_ doesn’t think she’s showing, but the way she’s standing might convince him otherwise. “And your ex. Was not all that friendly when I met her! Plus, she didn’t follow me back on Instagram.”

“You follow her on—”

“Wait,” she says. Her expression twists up. “Goddamn it. They think we’re _dating._ ”

“ _What_?”

“That’s why Cesar doesn’t like me!” She puts both hands on her hips, glares at him. “And your ex thinks we’re—ugh, yo me respeto, excuse me!”

“Te respetas?” he says, brows furrowed, “The fuck—”

“You have a _face tat_ ,” she tells him, “I went to Berkeley! I mean, sure, dance major, but—”

“You’re having a baby with some gringo from the Bay,” he deadpans.

“Oscar,” she says, and raises her eyebrows, “there’s a difference between fucking a white boy and fucking _you_.”

 _Ouch_. “Yeah,” Oscar says, flinching inwardly even as the words leave his mouth, like the sting of what she said isn’t true, “I woulda actually stuck around.”

Her head jerks back. He sees the flash of pain that flits over her expression before her eyes go steely, jaw going tight. He wants to apologize, but she doesn’t let him.

“What the fuck would you have to run away from?” she says, her voice trembling the slightest bit. Oscar takes a step close, but she shakes her head, takes her own backwards. “Knocking up a bitch with a degree’s a step up from them cholas you be taking home, I’m sure. You actually like any of them o qué?”

Christ. Oscar doesn’t know what to say—feels like they went from zero to sixty in mere seconds, and for no real good reason. He says, “That’s not your business,” and she scowls.

“If that’s the case, bro,” she says, “then me and my kid aren’t yours, either. But you out here hanging out with me most days anyway. Got me chilling at the crib on your birthday, even.” She breathes in, mouth pursed. She says, voice definitely trembling now, “You think I wanna be knocked up at twenty-two? I’m not even working full-time. I left home to try and make something of myself and had this shit happen anyway.”

She sniffs a little. Oscar feels like shit. “Neni.”

“Ya,” she says, and rubs under her eye a little, clearly trying not to ruin her makeup. “Stop, I’m gonna cry.”

He says, “I didn’t mean that.”

She scowls at him. “Yes you did,” she says, and then, when he doesn’t know what to say, slumps a little, still cradling her barely there bump. “I guess shouldn’t have said that, either. You’re a good guy.”

“No, I’m not.” He’s not. He keeps trying to pretend he is. “I just made you cry.”

“Fuck you, it’s the hormones,” she says, and then wipes at her face when actual tears slip out. She lets Oscar hug her, though, and he thinks maybe it’s comforting for them both. “But the next time you say that to me I’mma fucking clock you.” Her voice is muffled against his shirt.

“Deal,” he says, and she pushes him—gently—away.

Her makeups only a little smudged. “Don’t,” she warns.

“I’m sorry.” He’s working on apologizing better. He could be doing a better job, period, though.

She sniffs. “Go tell your brother you’re not having a baby with me. Jesus.”

“Right,” he says, and hugs her again, quick, before jogging into the house. He’s half-surprised Cesar didn’t dip, if he’s being honest. But no one here listens to Lil Peep but Cesar, so he follows the sound, knocks twice but doesn’t wait before entering his room. Cesar’s face down on his bed. He almost wants to laugh. “C.”

“What.”

Oscar sighs. Takes a seat at the foot of the bed. “We’re gonna need to talk this one out too, huh.”

Cesar says something into his pillow.

“Cesar.”

He sits up, scowling. Reminds Oscar of when he was just a baby, how he’d pout whenever Oscar would mess up one of his forts trying to build it for him. The memory makes him smile, which of course Cesar takes badly. “Is this a joke to you?”

Oscar’s a little shocked by the vitriol in his voice. He doesn’t take it well. “Watch your mouth, homie. Who you talking to like that?”

Cesar’s lower lip trembles. Oscar wants to know what the fuck is happening today—first Neni, now Cesar. He needs a blunt. “You’re having a baby.”

“I’m what now,” Oscar says, and winces at Cesar’s still devastated expression. “C. That’s not my kid.”

All it gets him is a stare. “How is it not your kid. You’re dating her.”

“I’m.” Oscar has to pause for a second. Covers his mouth and tries to remember when, if ever, he introduced Neni as anything other than his homie. He only hit on her that first time they met; their second meeting in the grocery store doesn’t count, because they immediately started arguing about pregnancy-safe foods. He thinks this is the twilight zone. “I’m not dating her.”

“Since when?”

Oscar gives him a dirty look. “Since never, cabrón, when the fuck I say I was?”

“You start bringing some girl over, cooking for her and sh—I mean, what am I supposed to think?” Cesar, despite the tone he’s using, and which Oscar still doesn’t like, at least looks embarrassed.

“It’s not like that,” he says, “I was just. We’re friends, C. She don’t have nobody besides Angelica, ya tú sabes. And I figure she needs a little help, y’know, with the baby.”

She reminded him of their mother, before things got so bad, when she was pregnant with Cesar. When it was just Oscar to help her carry shit when they’d go out to buy groceries or baby supplies. He remembers how hard it was for the two of them, how hard it was to watch. He doesn’t want to admit that to Cesar, though. Doesn’t want him to take it the wrong way.

He says, “I’d tell you if I was seeing someone like that. I’m not just gonna bring anybody around without giving you the heads up.”

Cesar squints at him. “Why?”

“ _You’re_ my kid,” he says, and Cesar cracks a smile. “I don’t need some hyna around who’s just tryna fuck around, alright? Neni’s good people, even if she stays clowning me.”

“Good,” Cesar says, and smiles more genuinely. “You deserve that.”

“Watch it,” Oscar says, cuffing him over the head, and lets his hand rest on his shoulder. He swallows, serious when he says, “I know with all the shit from. From this summer, and the whole past year…I know it was a lot. I’m sorry. I can’t—I know saying it ain’t much, vale, but I’m sorry.”

Cesar takes a deep breath. “I know,” he says.

Oscar bites the inside of his cheek. Says, “You know I was looking at apartments for us a few weeks ago, right? Been looking at some nice ones out in La Avenida. You think you’d like that?”

He can’t decipher the look on Cesar’s face. “You wanna leave Freeridge? What about the Santos?”

“They got nothing to do with us,” Oscar says, and it almost feels true. He’s looking less like the man he was and more like the man he wants to be, lately. It’s a strange, untethered feeling, but he thinks he almost likes it. When Cesar scoffs he says, “For real. We’re getting out of here. I’m gonna make this shit up to you, homie.”

“What,” Cesar says, eyebrows screwed up, “us leaving means none of this ever happened? It’s just gone?”

Soon, Oscar knows, it’ll be one year since that friend of his died. Olivia, body shipped to Mexico after the church service so her folks could send her off properly. He’s not going to take that away from him, Oscar thinks. He can’t take any of the past year away from him, bad as he wants to. And he knows, as much as he hates it, that leaving won’t fix them. But it might save them, if nothing else.

“Nah,” he says, squeezing his shoulder, “but it’s a start, right?”

Cesar stares at him for a long time. Oscar struggles not to fidget. Finally he says, “Yeah. Yeah, it’s a start.”

“Right,” Oscar says. He sighs. Hates to think they’ve got who knows how much to still deal with before they can settle into a new normal. He says, trying to make things a little lighter, “We good? I promise I’m not having no kids anytime soon, you’re expensive all by yourself.”

“I’m not,” Cesar says, nose scrunching up, and together they get up. He still looks a little tender around the eyes, but it’s okay, Oscar thinks.

“You go through hella food, homie,” Oscar says, leading them back out to the back. Cesar grabs the milkshake he must have left on the counter when he ran back inside. “Shit, I should probably give Claudis some cash for taking you out the other day.” Saying her name hurts a little less. He feels a soft burst of fondness, though, at the thought of her and Cesar getting to kick it still, remembers how good it felt to know there was love there, too.

“I tipped,” Cesar says, and then looks at Oscar sidelong. “She asked about you.”

Oscar inhales sharp enough that he starts coughing. “No she didn’t,” he says, after, because he can’t let himself feel hope for no reason, even if he’s got his kid brother smirking at him.

“She did,” Cesar insists, “I mean, she wanted to know if you knew we were hanging out, but—”

“C,” Oscar says, scolding, but he’s grinning a little, because of course that was her concern. It only stings a little, that she wasn’t after more information, but then he remembers that relying on a high school sophomore is a terrible idea, and the summer they survived simply proof of it. “Ya, come on, Neni’s waiting for us.”

They find her there on her phone, chewing on the straw of her now-mostly melted milkshake. If they look a little worse-for-wear, she doesn’t say anything.

“Alejo said he’ll be here in like an hour,” she tells them, shooting off another text message.

Oscar blinks at her. “Alejo?”

She looks up at him, raises her eyebrows. “Sad Eyes, cabrón.”

“Why’re you…texting…” Oscar’s staring now. She huffs a little, maybe looks a little embarrassed.

“Bro,” she says, tucking her hair behind her ear, “we’ve been talking. Hanging out, a little.”

“Wow,” Cesar says, and Neni shoots him a dirty look.

“Don’t start,” she says wagging a finger at Cesar, “I’m your _elder_. I bought you that milkshake.”

“Thank you,” he says, immediately, and then, with the straw still in his mouth, “Sad Eyes know you aren’t having a baby with Oscar?”

“C, you literally just found out—”

Neni sniffs. Says, “Yes,” and scowls when they both just look at her. “What? I’m hot and fun. Of course he still wants to kick it with me.”

“What happened to you just giving him your number?” Oscar says, thinking of the three of them at Dwayne’s back in September, and she rolls her eyes.

“I’m literally already knocked up,” she says, “can we not?”

“That’s why I tell you to wrap it up,” Oscar says to Cesar, dead-serious, and the two of them burst into laughter when Neni starts telling them off. He feels lighter for it, convinced, maybe, that he and Cesar are going to end up okay.


	8. Trellas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)

Things seem to happen slowly and then all at once. Cesar, comforted that Oscar is _not_ having a baby with Neni, starts tagging along whenever he’s invited out with them, introduces her to his favorite Greek joint and finds that she’s as obsessed with their honey mustard gyro as he is. He goes with Oscar to look at apartments, and together they decide on a two bedroom on the other side of La Avenida, farther from where they used to sometimes visit Claudia and, by default, Freeridge.

It’s got no view, more counterspace than Oscar’s used to, and the tiling is hideous. But the second they walk in it feels like it could be home, and the rent’s decent, and Oscar’s got a chunk of the RollerWorld money, besides. It also helps that he’s working a good job, one that he doesn’t see himself leaving anytime soon. He feels absurdly grateful; Cesar will have to transfer, next year, but it seems like he’s made up with his crew within the last few weeks, and they show up armed with cleaning supplies and cardboard boxes the weekend after Thanksgiving to help them pack.

Oscar thinks Cesar’s friends are weird, sure, but then Neni and Sad Eyes show up with pizza and soda halfway through and things don’t seem so bad.

They leave the kids to their own devices out back, Neni and Cesar communicating silently with their eyebrows, but before Oscar can investigate Sad Eyes is leading them inside, the three of them sprawling out in the living room. Neni’s showing already, got that pregnancy glow all the viejitas at the market like to coo over, no longer gaunt from morning sickness. She smiles at Sad Eyes and he smiles right back, has Oscar shaking his head at the realization that shit is finally coming together for everyone.

“You excited to get outta this crackhouse, homie?” Neni says, and swats away the greasy napkin that Oscar tosses at her.

“How many times you been over here for dinner, huh?” he says, “You didn’t complain then.” But then he takes a bite of his pizza to avoid answering.

It’s a complicated question. It’s the only home he’s ever had, no matter how shitty it was for most of these years. His mom tried her best but in a lot of ways she didn’t. He’s grown enough to see the full picture now, no matter that part of him still feels like a kid, watching his mother get caught up with his pops again and giving him another helpless son to boot. It was the four of them and then it was the three of them and then it was just him and Cesar.

That’s not entirely true, though, even if Claudia there, too, was just a temporary thing. The walls are stained with nicotine and they don’t even have a full furniture set, but it’s the same house where he taught Cesar how to talk and walk and read and write. It was all they had and soon they’ll be gone. He doesn’t know how to feel, just knows it’ll hit him fully later, after he and Cesar are finally somewhere they can breathe freely.

He says, once he’s done chewing, “Thanks for coming through.” Doesn’t tease her like he usually would, nodding back at Alejo real seriously.

“Anytime, compa,” he says. He’s on the floor next to Neni, her knee against his shoulder. Oscar misses a lot of things, but it’s a sweet ache, lately. Cesar sees Claudia and he’s happy and that’s all Oscar can ask for these days. “We’ll get everything moved by dinner.”

“Your new place has a little courtyard out back, doesn’t it?” Neni says, “We can eat outside.”

“How you thinking about food already, cabrona,” Oscar says, but Alejo just laughs even as his girl starts cussing them both out.

They _do_ manage to get it done by dinner, though. That Flores girl is _loud_ , and she’s surprisingly efficient when it comes to yelling at people to unload items correctly. Soon enough all the boxes are in the correct rooms and everything but the bedrooms are fully unpacked.

“I love you, but I’m not touching your calzoncillos, bro,” Neni says, chugging a jarrito and sitting on a box labeled _CLOTHES_ while he and Sad Eyes get his TV set up. He’s got to make sure the cable and internet are working, as much as for Cesar’s homework as his own Netflix habits. (He likes _Chef’s Table_ , sue him.)

“I sure hope you don’t,” Sad Eyes says, raising both eyebrows at her. She blows him a kiss, has him grinning real wide right back at her, and Oscar just shakes his head. Three months together and they’re already reminding him of Geny and Ruben Martinez.

The TV clicks on successfully, though, so soon enough they’re all reconvening in the kitchen, Ruby at the sink with Cesar while they give everything another scrub. Jasmine put some finishing touches on the living room that have Oscar reeling, as there’s now a portrait of her hanging next to the door and another on his coffee table; Neni complimented them the literal second she saw them, and now the two of them are discussing a maternity shoot while Sad Eyes sits next to them at the table just nodding along. Jamal, in turn, seems to have made himself at home and is drinking one of the Mexican Cokes that Cesar asked for on the way over.

Oscar just barely manages not the smile at the sight they all make.

“Alright, y’all,” Jasmine says, clapping once to get everyone’s attention. Privately, Oscar will admit that it’s her world and everyone else is just living in it. He wouldn’t be surprised if she ends up in politics. “What are we doing for dinner?”

“Oscar’s buying,” Neni says, immediately, and then when she catches sight of his expression, “I bought us lunch.”

“ _I_ bought us lunch,” Sad Eyes says, but the two of them are still holding hands. “I could go for some burgers, though.”

“Burgers sound good,” Cesar says, drying the last of their silverware. Ruby hops up onto their just-cleaned counter. Oscar tries not to sigh.

“What’s around here?” Jamal says, feet up on the chair opposite his like he pays the bills. “Any artisanal white joints or has the gentrification not spread yet?”

“It’s always _yet_ ,” Ruby says. He sounds sad. Oscar decides he wants these kids out of his house. He can already anticipate seeing too much of them around here.

“White people might’ve went off with that weird science food,” Neni says, “gastronomy? Is that what it’s called? They turn everything into foam.”

“Does it taste good though?” Jamal asks, “What if it’s, like. Bacon foam. Is there a difference between foam and a whipped cream?”

“Foam can be anything, I think,” Neni says, “but I—”

Oscar makes what feels like exhausted eye contact with Alejo. He says, “Who wants BK?” and everyone goes “ _Me_!” so that, at least, is settled.

Sad Eyes ends up saying he’ll come with, and the drive feels like it could have happened a year ago or five. They’ve known each other since they were kids, practically, and he’s the only one Oscar’s trusted to tell the truth about leaving the Santos. Alejo’s always been someone he can be real with, though—and part of Oscar thinks, too, that he’ll be making a break for it sooner rather than later.

Whether that’s thanks to Neni is up for debate.

That said, her influence is clear when Sad Eyes says on the drive back, “You planning on a housewarming, homie?”

“A what?” Oscar glances at him when they reach a red light. The car stinks of fast food, but it’s almost comforting after the overwhelming scent of disinfectant in the apartment. He wasn’t kidding when he said that Flores girl was good at running the show.

“Housewarming, tú sabes. Have some folks over for drinks, some food, celebrate the new place.”

“Shit, I thought that was for buying a house,” Oscar says. “Who would I invite, huh? You and Neni already came by.”

“Hombre, y tu tía?”

“Pretty sure she’s hiding Adrian,” Oscar says, and can’t help but scowl a little, “swear to God, him and Vero—”

Sad Eyes starts laughing, “You think he ran off with her?”

“I know he did,” he says, “you shoulda seen them when we were kids, always arguing.”

“That’s real love, huh?”

“Nah,” Oscar says, because he knows Vero and he knows Adrian. It might not be obvious but there’s a softness in all of them, underneath all the posturing; he finds it hard to hide it from himself, lately. “They’re both crazy but. Shit, maybe they’ll work together.”

“You don’t sound too happy, compa.”

“It’s weird,” Oscar says, vague memories of a similar conversation he had with Claudia surfacing, “son mis primos, foo. But, vale, they’re grown, right? Vero’s grown now.” Oscar pauses. Takes a breath. “I really missed all of that, being locked up as long as I was. The whole block was different when I got back.”

“Even more different now,” Sad Eyes says. Oscar glances at him, sees him looking serious. “Might as well celebrate the change. There’s good people, here and there.”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, and then, “your girl put you onto this?” This sounds like a Neni idea—she hasn’t been slinging for years. She’s a little better at tuning into normal adult shit, no matter that she thinks she doesn’t.

It makes Alejo laugh. “Quizá,” he says. “She’s real good people, too.”

“She’s goofy as hell,” Oscar says, “but shit, you like her just fine, huh?”

“Es una firme hyna,” he says, “I really like her.”

Oscar’s known him for years, but he doesn’t think he’s ever heard him sound this way about anybody before. Makes him feel a little protective—of them both, really, Alejo a real friend and Neni as good as family, no matter that they haven’t really known each other all that long. It’s about the experiences, he thinks. It’s about giving people chances, maybe.

He says, because he doesn’t want either of them screwed over in the end, “Y qué tal su cría?” He can see a shrug from the corner of his eye.

“Baby needs a daddy,” Sad Eyes says, conversational, and Oscar inhales weirdly, has to reach for his drink when it turns into a cough. When he looks over, Sad Eyes looks amused.

“The fuck you just say?”

“I ain’t stutter,” he says, shrugging. He’s smiling a little, like he’s still thinking of Neni. “She’s real cool, sabes.”

“Yeah,” Oscar says, “I kick it with her almost every day.”

Sad Eyes laughs, says, “Yeah, and I take her out when you ain’t around. No te dijo?”

“Wasn’t sure if it wasn’t just you taking it easy,” he says, and rubs his jaw.

Alejo’s been in the game as long as he has, gotten pulled into a lot of the same shit. It became a familiar mantra between them, around the time Oscar turned eighteen and started doing more for Cuchillos when he came calling: _Te watcheo_. It’s been true for years. Oscar knows he’s got a good head on his shoulders, doesn’t matter the massive cross he’s got inked on his neck. His own is fading faster than he expected, painful as the healing can feel, sometimes.

“Nah,” Sad Eyes says, eyes still on the road even as they fast approach Oscar’s new place, “I really like her, homes.”

Oscar blinks. Says, “Good. She’s a good one.”

“Yeah,” Sad Eyes says, still smiling just at the thought of Neni waiting for them back at Oscar’s new apartment. He looks fond, relaxed in a way that’s unfamiliar to Oscar, though he’s sure he’s had the exact same look on his face himself, back in the day. “I know.”


End file.
